Command One gave Bledsoe an icy, dismissive glance. “Perhaps you met one of my brothers. I have seven, although one is deceased.”
The general reached for the syringe, and the doctor placed it carefully in his hand. As he watched Bledsoe, Stalin said, “This man has considerable knowledge of our nuclear weapons activities, and he says he knows what will happen in the future.”
Command One brushed off the assertion with a sigh. “There are spies and charlatans everywhere. You know this.”
“True, Comrade.” Stalin paused and then added. “He said his blood would cure my sickness and give me strange abilities.”
Command One lifted an eyebrow, showing skepticism and dismissal. “That seems…unlikely.”
Stalin chuckled and shook his head slowly, as if waking from an odd dream. “He was persuasive. But!” He waved his gun toward Bledsoe. “What do you suggest we do with him? He and his boy did break into my room somehow, despite your security.”
Command One bowed his head. “I regret that very much, Great Leader, and am anxious to get to the bottom of how it happened.”
He met the dictator’s eyes, but there was something in his stance — the tilt to his head, the way he blinked as if taking in surprising information — that struck Winston as odd. He had seen that body language before.
“Perhaps,” the general said with careful consideration, “we should detain this man and explore his knowledge and claims.”
“Wait,” Bledsoe objected. He tried to step aside, but the guard pressed his muzzle into Bledsoe’s back. “There’s no detaining necessary. I can prove everything right now.”
Command One shifted to his left, blocking Winston’s view of Stalin. The general clasped his hands behind his back. He extended two fingers and flicked them upward twice — an unmistakable gesture clearly meant for Winston.
He didn’t have to be told twice. Winston slowly and silently levitated the Alpha Machine only an inch or so above his hands. He felt the pieces bond with his mind as the pressure in the back of his head increased. He spread his hands apart, allowing the pieces to spin freely. He knew he wouldn’t have much time.
“I am not saying there are not elements of truth to his claims,” said Command One, “only that we should approach them with prudence.”
Stalin seemed disappointed that there would be no immediate execution.
“No,” said Bledsoe. “Hell, no!”
“Would he react so if he had nothing to hide?” asked Command One. “And really? Curing sickness by giving you his blood?”
“We can detain him for questioning,” said Stalin. “Much questioning. He may be a spy or an assassin.”
“Yes,” said Command One. “I have the perfect facility and the perfect people. In Siberia.”
“I’m not going to Siberia!” yelled Bledsoe. “And this boy—”
He worked to spin about in the guard’s grip to face Winston, but it was too late. White and blue sparks cascaded from above Winston’s head, bouncing and sputtering out on Stalin’s beautiful hardwood floor.
Winston had the time and location selected. He wished he had the help of Little e, because even though Bernie had recharged him somewhat, he still felt deeply tired.
“He’s escaping!” roared Bledsoe. “Somebody grab him!”
Command One backhanded Bledsoe across the face and sent him sprawling into Stalin’s black pigskin couch. That was enough to distract the guard for the two seconds Winston needed.
The tori flipped and spun within the rings, beneath which the fifth piece rotated round and round. Winston compressed his energy and command into the Alpha Machine as he visualized pressing the navigation controls.
As the Russians stared at him in amazement, and with Bledsoe’s howl of loss and defeat filling the air, Winston vanished.
***
The first indication Winston had that he wasn’t back at Hanford, ready to do whatever was needed to rescue his friends and family, was that the catwalk over the spent fuel pool looked like Bifröst, the glassy, rainbow-hued bridge connecting Asgard and Earth in Thor. The balconies and decks that lined the gigantic storage facility appeared to be made of sparkling crystal, making them resemble suspended Christmas ornaments. What had been a yellow crane spanning the width of the pool was now a series of thin steel rods from which dangled a gigantic, curved, three-pronged claw, in which was stuffed a plush brown teddy bear exactly like the one Winston had cherished in kindergarten. The green-and-blue pool, rather than being filled with radioactive waste canisters, was now lined with complex patterns of gaming PC fans lit with various LED colors. Its edges were also lined with sauna jets. Of course.
“This is wack,” Winston tried to say, only to discover, once again, that he had no voice. Or body. He was merely stuck in another limbo construct that somehow blended his real destination with fondly remembered elements of his life.
Winston thought his heart would burst with joy, making him glad that he appeared currently not to have one.
said Shade.
<—and then we were here,> Alyssa cut in.
Winston wanted to see them, the real them, so badly that he couldn’t think of anything else.
Unsure what that instruction might mean in this place, Winston suddenly felt many new sensations at once. Breath rushed into his lungs. Gravity pressed down into his hands and feet. No sooner did these realities sink in than arms seized him from behind, practically squeezing the air from his body. He looked down and found four hands — two brown and two distinctly pale and female.
Winston spun about and found his friends’ faces beaming at him. He returned their embrace and found himself weeping giant sobs of pure joy and relief. Seeing him break down, Shade and Alyssa couldn’t hold back their own tears. A moment later, all three of them were on their knees, arms still wrapped around each other, alternately crying and laughing uncontrollably.
“What are we doing?” laughed Alyssa. “My God, we are so lame!”
“And where are we?” asked Shade. “Is that bear your Mr. Stuffypuff?”
Winston wanted to deny it, but he could only nod his head, which sent them into more rounds of hysterics.
At length, they calmed enough for sensible questions to return.
“How’s your grandpa?” Winston asked Alyssa.
“Good,” she said, sobering somewhat. “Bernie used the last of Little e’s energy on him, and that was enough to get him to a hospital. Surgery and a couple of blood transfusions turned him around.”
At that, Winston felt an inner shudder pass through him, remembering Bledsoe’s near success with Stalin. How close it had all come. Seconds from complete ruin.
Winston pushed the thought aside. “And my parents?”
“Far as I know, they’re good in the hood,” said Shade. “But ask Bernie.” A nod from Shade as he glanced over Winston’s shoulder cued Winston to turn around.
There was Bernie, still in his blue overalls, barefoot, white-maned, and with those mesmerizing, opalescent eyes that now swam with emerald green. Creases appeared around the corners of Bernie’s thin mouth. Winston stood and gave him the bear hug he deserved. Bernie lightly rested his hands on Winston’s back, but that was fine. It didn’t have to be equal.
“Thank you again, Bernie. You saved my life.” He felt Bernie withdraw slightly. Winston let him go and studied his face. “What?”
“That’s why he did it,” Shade clarified. “It was epic — I think. I actually wasn’t there for that part. But Bernie said he had watched recordings of Bledsoe winning every time and just couldn’t take it anymore. He finally snapped and broke the rules.”
“How’s that feel?” Winston asked. “Are your alien buddies all freaking out?”
Bernie took a step back and bowed his head.
Winston cocked his head. “Your alien buddies aren’t freaking out?”
“Whoa,” chimed in Alyssa. “Come again?”
“Um, don’t take this wrong,” said Shade, “but you don’t look human. The skin, eyes, hands. You can’t talk.”
Winston studied Bernie more closely. “Are you saying you were…bred to look this way?”
“Dang, dude,” said Shade. “And I thought my dad wanting me to take over his car business was bad.”
Alyssa shook her head. “Mind. Blown.”
Bernie gave the barest of shrugs.
“What about Command One?” Winston asked. “How could he be at Area X today and Russia back then?”
In answer, Bernie slipped a hand into his overalls pocket and drew out a small silver object. Winston recognized it as a voice recorder.
Bernie said,
Slowly, Winston reached for the object. Shade and Alyssa crowded against him. Winston didn’t have to press the round button in its center. He saw the device, understood it instinctively, and mentally activated it.
“This is Winston,” said Winston’s own voice. It filled the world around them and echoed from the walls. “I understand what’s coming. I’ve seen the threat. I don’t want to tell you too much, because, well…” The three of them muttered the word along with the recording. “…time machine. I’m not gonna lie. There’s not much hope. But there may be a way. I’ve taken a couple of steps already. I mean, isn’t that why we went through all this in the first place? So, keep going, OK? Remember: never, never, never give up. Winston out.”
The recording ended.
Winston looked from Shade to Alyssa. Both stood beside him, unsure what to make of it.
Winston knew the right question. He had guessed when he saw Command One synchronizing new information from the Omega Mesh as he stood before Stalin.
“Bernie, what was the date stamp on this?”
“Six years!” Winston raised his arms in triumph, knowing that this result would at last persuade the Omega Mesh not to reset this timeline. “We gained six years! Yes!”
His friends and family would be fine, and Bledsoe would have a very, very long time to enjoy being on the receiving end of scientific experiments in Siberia.
Alyssa’s face clouded over. “But if that’s you in 2478, then that means…”
Shade looked as if he’d just seen his beloved Shack catch fire. “That means you’re leaving.”
Winston bit his lower lip, wondering what was coming and how he could possibly meet it after such a close brush with annihilation.
Alyssa kissed Winston’s cheek. “It’s been a hell of a first date,” she said. “I dare you to top it.”
Winston and Shade traded knowing glances and fist bumped.
“Challenge accepted,” said Winston.
Epilogue
Picnic in Paradise
February 21, 1962
The three of them sat on the grass atop a red and white checkered picnic blanket. It was a brisk but sunny winter day, with midday temperatures in the low forties and a slight breeze ruffling Winston’s hair. The green water tower loomed over them to Winston’s left, and to the east before them, Portland spread out in its glittering glory, minus a few of the skyscrapers Winston had grown to expect. Under a pale blue dome of brilliance, Winston could easily make out all five Cascade mountains from his Council Crest perch.
“And see that spot down there?” Shade asked. Behind Winston, Shade continued the ongoing saga of his battle with Lynch as he and Alyssa climbed about inside trolley car 506, one of the three old Portland streetcars that used to rumble up their rails to the hilltop. “That’s where he had me pinned on the ground. But I was, like, how much do you lift, bro? Are you compensating for something?”
Alyssa laughed, and the two of them kept on chattering, leaving Winston to enjoy the picnic he had dreamed of his entire life.
“There!” said Claude from around a mouthful of Tillamook cheddar cheese, pointing up at the sky. “Did you see a twinkle?”
Amanda nestled deeper into his coat, which he had partly draped around her. A look of utter contentment remained fixed on her features, and it was all Winston could do, as he sat watching them, not to burst into tears once more.
“I missed it,” she said. “Winston?”
“Missed it.”
He took another bite of ham sandwich, just to have something to do, something to take the edge off his rapture. He set the sandwich back on his plate, which rested beside Little e. Within the device, the five Alpha Machine pieces floated, motionless but ready. A handful of new energy marbles formed a bulge in Winston’s jeans pocket.
Claude smiled at Winston. This was Claude in his mid-forties, still relatively young and strong, and about the same age as his wife. The crow’s feet around his eyes showed hints of the old man to come, the one Winston had known so well, but that man was decades in the future. This Claude was going to enjoy a regular life with the woman he loved and had already given one lifetime to. They already had a spot picked out — a spacious place in Ashland, at the southern end of Oregon and far enough from Portland to merit a duality exception from the Omega Mesh. Their move-in date was the following week, and Amanda couldn’t wait to nestle into a large home with exposed timbers, tiered garden, and broad windows that invited seeing the world and letting it see in. And Winston would be free to visit it any time he pleased because, of course, time machine.
“It’s a big moment,” said Claude. “One of the biggest. I wanted you to see it. John Glenn making America’s first orbit of the Earth. This moment tilted the space race back into America’s favor and set the stage for everything that followed. The Moon. Mars. And…” He gazed thoughtfully at Winston. “Whatever comes next.”
“Careful, Dad,” said Winston. “Spoilers.”
What he didn’t want to say, because it would sound unbearably hokey, was that, as far as big moments went, John Glenn had nothing on this picnic. There was no way to say it aloud. And there was no need. They all felt the same way.
Amanda pulled one hand from under Claude’s coat and reached for Winston. He interlaced his fingers with hers, and she squ
eezed.
“My boy,” she said with quiet wonder. “I am so, so proud of you.”
Claude nodded and swallowed thickly, fighting back his own emotions. “Well.” He reached into their picnic basket and drew out a wooden cribbage board. “Anyone for a game of three-handed?”
At no point in the past, present, or future had Winston ever wanted anything more.
The End
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Whew — made it!
As I write this, it’s Christmas morning. But for my keyboard, the house is silent. All four of my kids remain asleep. After staying up with my wife to wrap presents well beyond Santa’s visiting hour, I got up early to implement the final edits from my proofreader. The book has to arrive in the layout team’s inbox by noon (because they’re in Australia) in order to be back to me, finished, by tomorrow night so I can make Amazon’s preorder submission deadline.
This is quite a change. Here’s midlife me, wrapping up a novel in my office on Christmas morning. Childhood me would have been downstairs surrounding by a sea of wrapping paper, having thoroughly vetted the contents of my stocking, which my parents — I mean, Santa — had been kind enough to fill with distractions so they could sleep in.
Things change.
After more than eight years, the Winston Chase trilogy finally draws to an end. It’s definitely not the same story I had in mind when I started. Book 3 went through three major drafts. The Omega Mesh didn’t even exist until the second draft. Between the second and third drafts, I jettisoned over twelve thousand words, which included a half-baked subplot involving Agent Lynch. All told, I’ve probably thrown out at least two hundred thousand words over the course of this trilogy. If someone had told me as I started that this would be the case, would I have continued? You bet. However, I might have tried to do better on the planning side. Many of those two hundred thousand words came from trying to write without an outline. Never again, I tell you.
Fun facts: In a series that contains a seemingly infinite number of references to my favorite movies, Agent Lynch was named after a character in 2010’s The A-Team, one of my wife’s top action picks. Agent Smith was named after the bad guy in The Matrix, a poor choice I never went back to fix. Winston’s last name derived from me driving around a strip mall parking lot, thinking, “Hm, what should his last name be? Oh, look — a bank.” I don’t know where Shade’s name came from; it just popped into my head and stayed. And Alyssa was named for a beautiful young ballerina — my fifth grade crush, who never even knew I liked her.
Winston Chase- The Complete Trilogy Page 95